little blue bottles
I would go back home, but I am not welcome there.
When I first came to Mr. Zabuto's house, I was a baby. And the bright blue bottles on sticks all around the house were something I never paid attention to. Glistening in the rain, casting a blue glow over the ground in the sun, their little strips of cloth floating in the breeze, they were always there, and I never noticed them.
My throat was slit, as you know, by razor sharp fingernails. I had never trained for that particular weapon, and although Zabuto had tried to prepare me for what particular vampires could do, hypnosis was not a standard practice.
It did not hurt. I had thought it would hurt. And when I was dead, I saw you.
I saw you try to save me, ignoring your friends, ignoring the vampires. You held me in your arms, and wished that I was still alive.
I wanted to go back home. I wanted to see the small tree outside of my window, to see the coffee bean fields all around us, to see the mist rising off of the mountains. I craved my warm bed, my small room, my life before I was called. And when I returned...
...the small blue bottles kept me away. The tiny strips of cloth warnings against me -- against my kind. No duppys allowed near this house -- no dead watchers, no dead servants, no dead slayers. Tiny strips of cloth protecting them from us, from me.
I can not go home again. I am bound to search for a new home.
You held me. You wished that I was still alive.
You caused this. You died, and came back.
I want to come back.
I want to come back to you.
Let me come. Let me stay. Do not place a blue bottle in your yard. I will not take much. I will not want much.
Please let me stay here with you.
d e a d l e t t e r s h o m e